She placed her purse on the hutch near the front door, then scanned the living room, where several red and green plastic storage containers were stacked near the hearth.
Oh, good. He’d remembered to have Tomas bring in the Christmas decorations. Chloe might not be able to go home for the holidays, but she could at least make the best of it here on the Rocking C, just as her mother always had.
No matter where in the world her parents were stationed or who was gone on deployment, Chloe’s mom, an army nurse, made sure that Christmas was a special time of the year and always did things up big. And because of her efforts and the decorations they’d transported from house to house, the spirit of the season, had always been magical and had brightened their home.
In fact, because of the transient nature of her and her husband’s military careers, Captain Louella Dawson took great pains to always maintain their family traditions, including a passed down recipe for hot buttered cranberry and orange scones.
Granted, her mother’s skill as a combat medic was more laudable than those of being a cook, but that didn’t stop her. And those scones, which had been a family recipe for longer than anyone could remember, had become as much a part of the Dawsons’ winter wonderland as Santa Claus himself.
When Chloe had talked to her parents last week, they’d been thrilled that two of their three children would be with them for the holidays. As much as Chloe would have liked to have been one of those kids, she didn’t have the money for airfare to Fort Drum in New York, which was where her parents were currently assigned. And even though they would have gladly shelled out the money for her travel, Chloe needed to be independent and demonstrate that she was capable of managing her own life—as well as her diminishing bank account—even if that meant being alone during the most wonderful time of the year.
Well, maybe not alone.
“I’m back,” she called.
Joe really ought to be in bed, resting, but the smell coming from the kitchen told her he’d kept himself busy—too busy—while she’d been gone.
“I’m in here,” he said.
She followed the sound of his voice, as well as the mouthwatering aroma, and found him standing at the stove, peering into a pot.
She probably ought to chastise her patient for overdoing it, especially after he’d assured her that he wouldn’t, but she was too hungry and too impressed with what he’d done to make a big deal about it.
“You obviously know how to cook,” she said, as she entered the kitchen with the grocery bags in hand. “Maybe you worked in the mess hall when you were in the service.”
He turned and flashed a handsome grin. “Marines call it the chow hall.”
He certainly seemed to remember some things—like military terms.
“Is cooking another memory?” she asked.
He shrugged, then cocked his head as if he was thinking over the possibility. “No, just common knowledge, I guess.”
“Nevertheless, something sure smells delicious.”
He wiped his hands on a dish towel, then took the bags from her and placed them on the counter.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
“Just messing around.”
“You’re supposed to be resting.”
“I must’ve rested too much this morning. I don’t think I’m used to sitting around doing nothing all day.”
Chloe looked at the way his biceps filled out the borrowed Future Farmers of America T-shirt she’d found in Dave’s drawer.
Ever since she’d seen his bare chest, she’d found it impossible to stop thinking about his chiseled torso or the way his muscles rippled. He certainly looked like a man who was used to action and lots of it.
In fact, she could easily envision him lifting weights, running or kickboxing if he needed an outlet for his energy. But she never would have expected to see him in the kitchen, creating something that smelled so good that her stomach was growling.
“So you decided to do some cooking?” she asked.
“Well, I started to, but then I realized I didn’t have all the ingredients I needed.”
“You should have called me on my cell. I could’ve picked them up while I was at the market.”
Joe turned off the fire on the stove. “I didn’t want to bother you. Plus, I didn’t know if the stores in Brighton Valley would carry what I needed. Besides, when Tomas and I brought in those Christmas decorations earlier, he mentioned that his wife had bought more than they needed last weekend. She was going to make some of the dough tonight, and he promised to bring some to me tomorrow.”
The small town didn’t boast a mega supermarket, but they usually kept most staples in stock. “What is Tomas supposed to bring you?”
“Masa. It’s a corn dough made from hominy.”
“What exactly are you trying to make?”
“Tamales,” Joe said simply, as if he was making something as ordinary as a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.
“You actually know how to make tamales?”
“Strangely enough, that’s another thing I know how to do. Don’t ask me why because I doubt that I used to make Mexican food as a sergeant in the Marines. But when I saw all those ornaments and the nativity set, all I could think of was tamales. I must associate them with Christmas. So I decided to make some. We can eat a few tomorrow, then freeze whatever is left and have them as part of the holiday meal.”
“That makes sense. I associate cranberry-orange scones with Christmas because it was a holiday tradition for my family. But...” Chloe trailed off, not wanting to risk offending her guest, who was eager to have at least a small tidbit of information from his past.
“But what?” he asked.
“Well, it’s just that most of the families I know who make homemade tamales for Christmas are Hispanic. But Wilcox doesn’t really strike me as a typical last name.”
“That’s something I thought of, too. But, let’s face it. My coloring would indicate that there’s some ethnic blood running through my family tree. Also, when Tomas was here earlier, he said something in Spanish. I not only understood him, but I responded.”
“In Spanish?”
“Yes, so either I was adopted or my mother was a lovely little señorita who married Mr. Wilcox, which is what I’m leaning toward since I obviously grew up with that heritage.”
Chloe bit her cheek so that she wouldn’t reflect how sad she felt about him not having any idea who his family was, especially at this time of year. She might live far away from the Dawson clan, but at least she knew where she belonged. Joe didn’t even have that.
Yet instead of blustering in frustration or sinking into a depression, the guy was in here, floating around her kitchen, trying to make the best of whatever miniscule detail he could recall.
She liked knowing that he was a glass-half-full kind of person. Kevin Boswell, her ex-boyfriend, had always been such a pessimist, thinking the world was out to get him. And Dave, even though he wasn’t ever anything more than a friend, was always so melancholy and down that Chloe’s spirits sank whenever she was around either of them.
“So, how does one make tamales?” she asked.
“I had to double-check on the internet, which brought up more recipes and instructions than you can believe. And although there are lots of different methods, the one that seemed the most familiar is a two-day process anyway. So tonight I cooked the filling with some pork I found in the freezer. We can eat some of that over the rice I made.”
“Boy, you have been busy,” Chloe said, her admiration growing.
“I hope you don’t mind me making myself at home.”
“Of course not.” How could she when she saw the excitement in his eyes, something she hadn’t noticed before? “Mi casa es su casa.”
He chuckled at her attempt to speak Spanis
h. “Tomorrow, when Tomas brings me some masa and some corn husks, I’ll be able to make the dough and assemble everything together.” He replaced the lid on one of the pans he had on the stove.
She liked seeing him comfortable in the kitchen, but she was even happier to know that he’d be spending one more day in the house and not out on the ranch, trying to attempt more strenuous chores. This way, he felt useful, and they were both winners.
As she began to put away the groceries she’d purchased earlier, Joe zeroed in on the sugar, vanilla, oranges and dried cranberries.
“Is that for the scones you were talking about?” he asked.
“Yes, I thought I’d make them this evening.”
“I don’t suppose you’d be willing to make some cookies one of these days.”
“Of course. I have some great family recipes. It wouldn’t be Christmas without a variety of goodies.”
At that, his eyes brightened like a child standing in front of a bakery display case.
“You must like sweets,” she said.
“I think you’re right.”
Another memory, it seemed. But not one they could build upon.
“Do you like to bake?” he asked.
“Yes, especially at this time of year. That’s why I wanted to make the scones tonight. We always used to eat them when we decorated the house for Christmas.”
In all honesty, Chloe would much rather spend the day baking than making a holiday meal.
“You mentioned being hungry,” he said, “and dinner is ready. Do you want to eat before you make the scones?”
“It won’t take me long to whip up the dough—unless you’re too hungry to wait.”
“I’m okay. I ate the rest of the tuna salad for a late afternoon snack. Computer sleuthing is hard work.”
“How did that go, by the way?” Chloe wished she would’ve thought of looking him up online yesterday, but living out at the Rocking C full-time was like being in a technological time warp.
She was usually so busy with the chores and managing the ranch that she rarely had a chance to use the old computer. She’d often thought of how getting a newer modem or laptop would help streamline the day-to-day management of the ranch, like paying bills, ordering merchandise, and cutting checks to vendors and their two employees. But at the end of the month, she couldn’t justify the expense. So she was left with the antiquated system Teresa Cummings had set up at least a decade ago.
“My search went about as well as I expected,” Joe said. “A big fat nada on any information about me, but I did learn some interesting things about Brighton Valley.”
While she mixed the ingredients for the scones and Joe wiped down the countertops, he filled her in on what he’d discovered online.
She set the oven timer just as he finished washing the mixing bowl and the pots he’d used.
“By the way, I hope you don’t mind that I got into the pantry and the freezer without asking if it was okay.”
She laughed. “Even if I’d had plans to use that pork you found in the freezer or the rice and beans, I’m too hungry to object.”
As he placed the bowls of food on the table, she set out the plates and silverware. Then they both took their seats.
After eating the first delicious bite and savoring the taste, she said, “You must be a chef or something in your real life. This is way too good to be chow-hall fare. What’d you put in the sauce?”
“I just threw in some seasonings I found in the spice cabinet.”
He’d certainly made himself at home in what she’d once considered her domain, but if he could whip up meals like this, she’d be the last one to complain. Besides, it had been ages since someone had cooked for her. And if truth be told, she liked being a guest instead of the hostess.
As they dug into their meal and silence stretched between them, she couldn’t help letting her thoughts drift to Sam, Ethel and the other patients on the third floor of the Sheltering Arms. And as she did, her worry grew.
She had to do something, but what? She no longer worked there, so her hands were tied.
“What’s wrong?” Joe asked.
Had her heavy thoughts been so obvious? “Why do you ask?”
“You seem sad and preoccupied.”
“I visited my friends at the nursing home today and...” She paused, wondering how much to divulge. If she confided too much in him, she’d have to tell him about being fired. And then she’d have to defend her actions, or risk having him think she was a flake or a screw up or worse. And she didn’t like the idea of him questioning her abilities. So she finished the sentence she’d started. “It just makes me sad. That’s all.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Me, too.” Eager to change the subject, she added, “I picked up a Christmas tree while I was in town. Maybe, after dinner, you can help me bring it inside and decorate it.”
“Sure, I’d be glad to.”
As she dug back into the scrumptious meal Joe had cooked, she pondered her usual holiday traditions. Yet for some reason, she didn’t seem quite as lonely as before. Nor did she think she would miss the family Christmas in New York as much as she’d once thought she would.
She might have wanted to help Joe get through the holidays this year, but now it seemed that he was helping her.
And she looked forward to creating a few new Christmas memories—with him.
Chapter Six
The night sky provided a clear view of the stars as Joe went out to get the tree from the back of the ranch pickup.
He took a moment to study the constellations, noting both the Big and Little Dippers. Apparently he had at least some astronomical knowledge, which was another tidbit of information that hadn’t been completely lost to him.
For some reason, he felt oddly at home on the Rocking C. He knew where to find things, like the mop he’d used earlier today and the ladder he’d needed so he and Tomas could climb into the hayloft for the Christmas decorations. He’d even walked right up to the container of oats and molasses, popped open the lid and scooped out a handful to feed as a treat to Lola, the mare.
In spite of the fact that Hernandez, the Rocking C foreman, hadn’t given him any reason to believe he’d ever stepped foot on the ranch before, Joe still couldn’t seem to kick that uncanny feeling that he had.
But if so, he didn’t have a clue what the circumstances had been.
Had he worked here? Maybe even lived here? If not, he must have visited Dave and his family at least once.
As he walked out to the pickup Chloe had driven to town earlier, a crisp winter breeze stirred up the ranch scents that seemed more and more familiar.
In spite of what Hernandez had said, somewhere along the line, Joe had been here.
His boots crunched along the graveled drive as he headed toward the faded green GMC Chloe had parked near the barn. Hell, even that weathered old truck looked familiar. Had he driven it before? Or had he just ridden in it?
“The tree is in the back of the pickup,” Chloe had told him before heading to the kitchen to check on the scones baking in the oven.
Sure enough, there it was.
He reached in, grabbed the tree by the trunk and pulled it out. As he shook out the branches, he caught the scent of pine, which didn’t provoke any memories.
He had to have celebrated Christmas before. He had a tamale recipe to prove it. He cursed the amnesia that plagued him while he carried the six-foot tree into the house. Then he placed it in the stand that had been stored in the loft with all the other holiday decorations.
Joe had no more than stepped back to check out his work when Chloe carried in a tray with two steaming cups of hot cocoa and a plate of scones.
“It’s a bit crooked,” she said.
“I can fix that.” Joe made a
few minor adjustments in the stand, then tilted the trunk slightly to the left.
“That’s better,” Chloe said as she set the tray on the coffee table. “I’ll get some water to fill the reservoir. Then we can get started.”
After she returned with a plastic pitcher, she knelt and watered the tree. When she finished, she stood and brushed her hands against her denim-clad hips. Then she began to unpack the red and green plastic storage boxes.
First they strung the lights, tiny, multicolored bulbs that blinked on and off. The ornaments came next. While they worked, they’d stop long enough to nibble on the warm, buttered scones and to sip the hot chocolate.
Joe couldn’t say whether he’d ever decorated a tree before, but doing so with Chloe sure felt like a first.
“Oh, look,” she said as she unwrapped the tissue from an angel. “This is the perfect tree topper. Don’t you think?”
Actually, just hearing her ooh and aah over the various ornaments while her eyes lit up like a hopeful child made the entire evening seem perfect. And he couldn’t help but smile. “You bet.”
“Can you reach to put it up? Or should I get a chair?”
“I’ve got it.” He took the angel from her hands and put it in place.
With that done, they both stood back and studied their handiwork.
“It’s beautiful,” she said, her eyes glistening.
She was beautiful—even in jeans. And he couldn’t help thinking that she belonged here—on the ranch, decorating a tree and making a memory.
When it was all over—not just Christmas, but his amnesia—he’d have to ask her out, just to see her all dressed up. Maybe he’d take her to that Italian restaurant...
Wait. He could almost see an actual place in his mind, a quaint restaurant with a European flair—a mural of Venice hand-painted on a white plaster wall, dark wood tables covered with white linen, a bud vase with a single red rose, a flickering candle... Where was it? When had he seen it?
“What do you think?” she asked.
Harlequin Special Edition November 2014 - Box Set 1 of 2: A Weaver Christmas GiftThe Soldier's Holiday HomecomingSanta's Playbook Page 28
